Even So

When peace like a river attendeth my way

“We are here to celebrate Elijah’s life,” his father said, choking back sobs. “They called Elijah the Great Encourager. He was always encouraging to everyone.” Somewhere in the graveyard, a bugle sounded an elegy. “My beautiful boy. My beautiful, beautiful boy.” He turned to his wife and buried his head in her neck.

My mother’s grip tightened around my shoulder as if by clutching me she could reassure herself she will never have to feel my absence. She pulled a pack of Kleenex wrapped in a pastel, floral pattern out of her purse with her other hand. “This damn mascara was supposed to be waterproof. Do I look bad?” she asked, pressing a used Kleenex into my palm. 

I squeezed the Kleenex before placing it into my jacket pocket, “You look great.” 

She passed me another wipe, a new one. “Just in case you need it.”

But my eyes were dry. So dry I wondered if I should press my head to my chest and bring my palms up to pretend I was praying. Everyone else’s cheeks were ruddy with tears, mascara dribbling down their faces in streaks of black. I thought I too would be crying. I thought I would feel rivers pouring down my cheeks and pooling at the tip of my nose. All I could think of was my dog’s  backyard funeral five (or was it seven?) years before. 

When sorrows like sea billows roll

My dog had some form of cancer. It caused him to yelp when I touched him; caused him to nip when my tears dropped on his newly hairless back; caused him to squeal as he drank water. When my dog struggled to breathe, my father gripped my hand and told me it was time for Buck to go away for a while. He was in so much pain, it was easier for us to say goodbye to him for good than to make him suffer more for our sake. So, I squeezed Buck and told him goodnight, my eight-year-old version of goodbye–a temporary loss, with resurrection as the sun rose.  My father stroked Buck behind the ears as he lifted him into his arms and then walked to the basement. I heard the garage door lift, the car engine shudder to life, and the metal grind as the door lowered. When my father reappeared an hour later, he brought a dead dog wrapped in a baby blanket and a clear Tupperware bin the size of a carry-on suitcase. Then I finally understood what goodbye meant. 

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come

I do not tell anyone goodnight anymore, and rarely do I ever say goodbyes. I never even said goodbye to Elijah, although his family gave me the opportunity to. I was invited to an open casket service the night before his funeral: close family only. Elijah had taken his own life; I was not allowed to call it suicide, the dreaded word. Instead, Elijah was tempted by something greater than he could bear, and he gave his life away to the evil thing; he took his own life to free himself from the temptation. And so, as his cousin, I was obligated, if not propelled, to stand beside his coffin and peer into his closed eyes, to touch his cotton-packed forehead, and to run my fingers along the edges of his plush, white velvet coffin cushioning. I was invited to look death in the face, and death was a seventeen-year-old boy.  

Let this blest assurance control

I did not have the stomach for seeing him, nor watching his family hug each other and clamp their white-knuckled fingers to the edges of his coffin lid as if their grips could keep him from being lowered. I could not bear to watch the priest graze his mother’s hand to ask her to move back, to ask her to watch her beautiful boy be sealed away. So, I found myself being questioned as to why I did not go, why I did not get closure. 

What closure could I have gotten from watching the closing of a casket lid?

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight

My father clicked the bin’s lid shut, his tears plopping on it and distorting my dog’s face. My stomach ached from my squalling. My tears had dripped off my chin and patted the dirt around my toes into mush.  

“Goodnight Buck,” I said once more, heaving, as I drew a clump of earth into my palm. The earth landed with a thud as my sister, brother, and I pelted piles of earth onto the box. Soon, my dog was covered, and the only reminder of his life was the lump of earth behind my pond. 

The clouds be rolled back as a scroll

The earth at Elijah’s gravesite looked like an old woman’s hand: crinkly and ashen. Twisted roots spurted out  from cracks in the dirt. They reached towards his casket like fingers, waiting to draw him in and clasp him forever. 

My mother clasped me once more as his father walked up on stage. 

“Elijah loved the hymn, It Is Well With My Soul,” he said, lifting his arms to signal everyone to join him. The fat around his chin wobbled, “When peace like a river attendeth my way.” The voices of my grandparents and parents rose to meet his, “When sorrows like sea billows roll.”

My voice evaded me. I opened my mouth, yet no sound came out. I let their voices swaddle me instead. 

Whatever my lot Thou has taught me to say

It is well with my soul

The wind’s chill closed my body off, and even their voices were not enough to warm me. So, I walked away towards my father’s truck and climbed into the side door. The wind could no longer catch me, nor could their voices. And I was left alone, as I should have been. Without my family, without Elijah, and without the cold. 

Lord haste the day when my faith shall be sight

The funeral ended and my parents made no comment as to my absence. Instead, they regaled me with memories of Elijah from his childhood. I regaled them with nothing. 

They said they would always see him in everything: in the colors of the leaves, in the grass underfoot, in my grandmother’s tasteless mac n cheese.  

But I do not see him in anything. I do not see him in his father’s eulogy, in the pine box, in my memories. All I see is the tree branches bending in the wind reaching towards his father, towards his grave, towards the emptiness. 

Even so, it is well with my soul